


A Leaf from the Book of Invasions - Gardening at Night

by lferion



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: spook_me, Halloween, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Outdoor Sex, Sentient Plant-life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dryad at the bottom of the garden was not caught napping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Leaf from the Book of Invasions - Gardening at Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 Spook Me challenge. My creature prompt was "Plants" and the two images were this cover of [Fantastic Adventures](http://i879.photobucket.com/albums/ab353/spook_me/Spook%20Me%20Science%20Fiction%20Covers/SpookMe37.jpg) and this one of [The Secret of Phantom Lake](http://i879.photobucket.com/albums/ab353/spook_me/Spook%20Me%20Science%20Fiction%20Covers/SpookMe6-1.jpg)
> 
> Many, many thanks to Morgynleri, Auberus, the ladies at Write15, and especially to GryphonRhi for cheerleading, sanity-checking, beta-reading and all around encouragement. It would not have happened without you.

Most people had no idea there was a dryad in the back garden of the big house near the river below Blackfriars, an area that had seen times both good and bad. Most people wouldn't know what a dryad -- mythical or abnormal -- was, if their life depended on it. Declan MacRae was not 'most people'. Long before he ever met James Watson or knew of the Sanctuary Network, Declan was awake to the fact that the world did indeed hold more than met the eye. He had a gift for perceiving what was, unhindered by expectations of what _ought_ to be.

Declan was not fooled by the wide-eyed, babbling pair who came to the door of the London Sanctuary, ostensibly lost, transparently casing the place. He did find their glib and increasingly elaborate story amusing though, and made sure that his own demeanor gave nothing away of his own thoughts. (James would be proud, he thought, for it was from James that he had perfected the skill.) Let them proceed with their plans (though what they might hope to realistically gain was a mystery harder to parse) -- it would be a useful test of the new defenses and safety protocols.

And besides, it would be fun. After all, if people were determined to break into a house that had a (deserved) reputation for odd goings-on (at the least) and being thoroughly haunted (at the more fantastical end of the tales) to being outright dangerous; a reputation going back to the Victorian Era; and furthermore, if they chose to assay that venture on Samhain, during the season of All Hallows, who was Declan to deprive them of the adventure? He and his people would simply have to make sure no one was actually harmed. Or not in any kind of preventable way, with priority going toward safeguarding the residents of course, not the interlopers.

Declan called a house-meeting on the heels of the departing 'tourists' to announce and discuss the plan. After the shouting died down (trailing off with the entirely predictable and, in this instance Declan thought, knowing James' sense of humor and appreciation of the truly ludicrous rather better than most, quite inaccurate mutter of "If Watson were here, there would be no such goings on, no indeed,") pretty much everyone began to get into the spirit of the thing. Some of the more excitable folks even had to be reined back a little, Declan's mind shying from memories of the Cabal attack. They were only expecting thieves (house-breakers, James would have called them, with that subtle twinkle under a so-serious mien) not an invasion of super-soldiers. That didn't stop Declan from raising the EM-shield, just in case, despite the fact that it made his teeth itch, but it did mean he made very sure that the weaponry was limited to trank-guns and an odd assortment of stunners and non-lethals. (Some of them very odd. The narrow-spectrum pheromone-spray -- aka the perfume-gun -- was unlikely to have any effect at all on standard humans, and while the glitter-emitter might be distracting, it wouldn't stop much of anything other than the flash-and-dazzle imps it was built for, and of course dour-worms, neither of which were about at this season. Still, both pieces of hardware were fun to use and entirely harmless even in the hands of quite young people.)

* * *

No one actually went to bed once all the preparations were made, though most of the residents did retire to their rooms to read, or gather in small groups in the lounge or the library. Declan took the opportunity for a catnap, having learned long ago to sleep when he could. Not that he would have anticipated needing that particular skill once he left the military. Kate had been more accurate than she knew when she'd teased him about how you could take the man out of the special forces, but not the forces out of the man.

Shortly before midnight, the outer perimeter alarm tripped, the soft buzz and blink waking Declan instantly. Three points of entrance -- side door into the solarium (Alistair's post, with the library squad as backup); over the gate into the delivery yard and thence to the loading-dock, where Dave Coachman and the brawny young people who did the Sanctuary's heavy lifting waited; two of the three most likely spots, both well defended. The third person or persons had come over the wall near the ancient water-gate, an access point that had been on no-one's list of maybes, much less probables, and had no immediate traps or defenders. Of course, the garden itself was not without hazard, especially to people with no idea what they were in for.

Three groups, not two. Two had been the most likely, given the afternoon's amateur sortie. Declan could not decide if that argued ignorance and wild luck, or more sophistication than any of them had credited. Two entirely different sets of invaders was extremely unlikely, but not impossible. Still, three it was, and the third was his to deal with. He had faith that Alistair and Penelope-Kate the librarian -- not to mention Dave Coachman -- and their energetic assistants would have the house-invaders well in hand without his help. Anything that did need his attention would come over the ear-piece anyway. Declan collected the sturdy and bright-eyed young woman who'd volunteered to be the one who had to keep up with him and watch his back, and set off to take care of the garden incursion.

The businesslike stream of low voices in his ear was easily tuned out, and he trusted Selene to keep the others updated on their own position. They slipped through the door that gave onto the kitchen-garden, the angle of the walls keeping them in darkness, invisible to anyone coming up central walkway. Declan motioned Selene to go left, through the greenhouse and along the far wall while he ghosted over the short lawn, hoping no one had left a croquet-hoop out to trip over. The distant sounds of London hardly carried into the garden, and it was easy to imagine that it had all been much the same when the house was built and London rather smaller.

Selene had just reported the greenhouse all clear when muffled laughter came over the ear-piece. Dave Coachman spoke with an audible chuckle. "Declan, the silly buggers are on a scavenger hunt, and we've got them all, including one who damn near fainted when Squishy went for his shoes. Fool didn't have the sense to just step over him and out of the way."

Scavenger hunters? Oh that was rich. Declan smiled, but kept his eyes purposefully scanning what he could see of the garden for movement. The river-wall sensor had registered a definite breach, and he could hear a disturbance beyond the line of greenery that marked where the ground dropped off as it began to slope toward the river. Declan spoke very quietly into the pickup. "All of them? I've got unknowns out here in the lower gardens, potentially dangerous."

"I'll ask them," Dave said, humor vanishing. Indistinct voices sounded for a moment in his ear as Declan crept stealthily around the fountain, staying off the flags so as to move more quietly. Something was definitely going on: instinct and training both told him so. Dave had apparently picked up on it too; his voice was low and terse when he next spoke. "Sir, they say just the seven of them, and I'm pretty sure they're not lying. Every one of them looked puzzled at the mention, and I'll wager none of them know the river even comes this close." He swallowed, and before Declan could say anything he went on, worry lurking under the professional tone. "Watch yourself sir. I'll make sure everyone stays put up here. Trish can be out there in two with reinforcements if you need them."

"Thank you, Dave. Not yet. If I haven't reported back in ten, send her with Tano and Phiie, armed heavy and light." Declan did not anticipate needing that much backup, but better to have it ready if he did. "I've got Selene," both of them heard the chime that was her acknowledgment, "not to mention the garden itself. MacRae out." As soft-footed as his boots would allow, Declan began sidling along in the shadow of the juniper bushes just as an unpleasant loud thunk sounded, followed by a creaking and crashing of wood. The tall branches of the ash-tree whipped against the dim orange haze of the sky, but it was shouts that rang out after a confused jumble of shots and more creaks and groans, not the percussive thud of a felled tree. Footsteps ran stumbling up the path, immediately overtaken by a hissing rustle and the very distinctive pop-whoosh! of the pyrocanthus igniting. It almost disguised the sound of a body hitting the ground, but not the ringing clatter of falling metal. Declan could see Selene across the garden, with a clear view of the dry-garden, wide-eyed at what she was seeing, but waiting for Declan’s signal to move.

Declan gave up caution and ran the last few steps to the open central area, only to stop in brief startlement of his own.

Partway down the garden path, the pyrocanthus was sparking angrily in its graveled bed, sending bright and smoking missiles at a figure sprawled headlong on the ground, a jerry-can of evil-smelling liquid lying near his head and several wicked blades scattered more widely to the side. None of the sparks came near the can. Declan had not thought the bush could aim its burning seeds. The figure had been tripped by the Scarlet Runner, bright red tendrils of which were busy binding his legs to the ground with firm grippers and rootlets, while his arms and hands and even torso had been captured and were swiftly being wound about with the Ribbon-ivy that had previously been happily tying up trellises for the mundane vegetables in the kitchen-garden. Neither of those plants had any real volition, though they were susceptible to strong influence and quite mobile on their own. Declan knew that someone had directed them to good purpose. The only reasonable candidate for that was the sentient Ash (or as it was commonly known to the Sanctuary residents, the Dryad) whose branches had been so agitated moments before.

Declan motioned Selene to watch over the plant's captive and moved quickly but still cautiously down the path and between the stiff sentinels of yew and hawthorn that marked the bounds of the formal gardens from the wilder back-garden. As he rounded the last prickly hedge, the base and lower canopy of the tall ash came into view. Branches that normally curved upward were angled oddly, and several seemed to have curled up into corkscrew shapes around dark bundles that squirmed and shouted.

A voice Declan had heard but once before sounded echoingly in his head. :Invaders, house-breakers, breakers of trees, these. One escaped by cutting and cracking, but he is caught now, felled by fire and twining-allies.:

There was a gash in the silvery-grey texture of the trunk, a startlingly pale wound, one side the abrupt cleavage of a very sharp blade, the other ragged where the weight of the branch had torn through the bark as it fell. Declan felt a stinging, sharp fury at the sight of the damage, his own anger and the tree's both.

But anger would serve none of them, not Declan, not the tree, not the Sanctuary, not even the interlopers. Declan took a deep breath and turned his thinking from the familiar shapes of covert action to the still less certain ones required of the Head of the London Sanctuary and James Watson's successor. Stop the bleeding, safeguard lives, negotiate, keep in mind desired outcomes, and near, intermediate, and long term consequences. The broken branch lay on the ground like an accusation, bark wrinkled where it lay twisted, branchlets and twigs pointing every which way, unlike the sweep and majesty of the tree in its usual state.

Stop the bleeding. Shaping thought and words both, Declan asked the tree, "How bad is the injury? Is there anything we need to do for you right now?"

:Inconvenient, not dangerous. I can still crush these tree-breakers.:

"Oy!" shouted one of the wriggling bundles, a sour-faced man all over unkempt bristles. His sharp voice cut into the tree's words, an unpleasant interruption. "Get us out of this fookin' unnatural tree. Oughtta cut it down, chop it to pieces. Oughtta be burned."

Declan ignored the outburst, tamping down the fury threatening his composure once more. The coils in the branches that held the men were not tightening, despite the offer of mayhem and obvious provocation.

:Nothing to be done in the dark; day comes soon enough. By the old law, their lives are forfeit for intent and the damage they did do.:

"Hey, you! You with the gun," the man yelled again, struggling harder against the unyielding wood. "I'm talkin' to you. Get us out of this effin' bloody tree, now. I'll have the law on you, 'harboring a menace' and 'unlawful detainment.' Bleedin' ponce!" He was completely oblivious to the irony and contradiction of his threat.

The other man was making sputtering noises of protest, his ability to form coherent words hindered by the fact that he was quite clearly terrified. Finally he managed, "Shut it, Reg. You'll only make it - him - them - mad. _More_ mad."

Declan gave them both a cold glance. Keeping his voice level with an effort he said shortly, "I'll deal with you two in a moment." Then he deliberately turned his attention back to the tree.

"Who the fuck are you talking to, then? Bloody maniac." the bristly one shouted, aggrieved.

Again his fellow interloper made distressed shushing noises. "The tree, I think. He's talking to the tree and it's talking back." That shut them both up for a moment, though whether in belief, disbelief or just to catch their breath was impossible to judge.

:You are Head of this place-grove-sacred-safeground-sanctuary. I will be ruled by you, new law or old. They did not kill, though death is in their minds.:

"I'm afraid I have to ask you to let them go," Declan said with a firmness he did not entirely feel. "Though not until I have another way to hold them secure so they can be turned over to the regular authorities." The longer he spoke to the tree, the more of a distinct person it -- he -- became, the trunk with its knots and boles and silvery bark both smooth and mapped with fissured layers acquiring features: glimmering, deep-set eyes, craggy brows, a mouth and nose and most of all a vitality, a vivid and immediate Presence.

"We can't just kill them out of hand, no matter what the old laws say. And I want to know if the young scavenger hunters are as unconnected to these ”gentlemen” as they claim." Declan was looking over the various dull-painted and dangerous objects dropped by the men when the tree had caught them up. The equipment was better quality than the men appeared to be: thoroughly illegal blades and incendiaries — all the things they would need to turn not just the garden but the entire sanctuary into an inferno, at least if it were still the ordinary old building it appeared. "I want to know whose idea this was and where they got their gear." The foolish and high-spirited young people out for a lark had done the Sanctuary a service by giving them advance warning, however inadvertent. Declan ran the beam of his torch over the ground and discovered a matching jerry-can, with 'flammable' and 'poisonous - do not ingest, avoid skin contact' symbol stickers uppermost. They certainly had intended death, but what he had told the tree was still true.

A sigh rattled the branches, and the uppermost leaved drooped a little against the sky. If a tree could be said to pout, this one was doing just that, though it was certainly justified in its unhappiness. :Let them go? Really? They were after more than tokens and trifles, mere proof they had dared the haunt. They were bent on taking, on destroying, not like the saplings you speak of at the House.:

"They _will_ be dealt with by the police, charged and prosecuted for everything we can get them on, from trespassing, to endangering both protected species and a Listed building, to intent to harm. You may be certain of that."

The branches clattered again in a noisy and even theatrical sigh, but an almost mischievous note colored the tree's next words. :I will let them go, unharmed even, if...:

"If?" He was bargaining with a tree, and it wasn't even the strangest part of his day. Declan bent a minatory look at the whorl of bark and branch that shadows made a face, and the bright points of green-gold light that were not reflections. "If what?"

A picture formed in Declan's mind: a younger James twined in branches, his erect nakedness not at all disguised by leaves, moonlight gleaming on pale skin and an expression of pleasure that was nearly pain on his face as he gave himself over to sensation, invasion, the difficult ecstasy of being taken, filled, fucked to shattering release. (Declan had been privileged to see that for himself, to feel James clench and pulse around him, shuddering in his arms, to hear the quiet, desperate sounds of need and pleasure and release that being fucked pulled from him. It was an act that James allowed himself very rarely -- not because he didn't like it; but because he enjoyed it all too much, and it was tangled with feelings and memories that Declan could barely begin to fathom.)

The image made Declan immediately, achingly hard, and he knew what his answer would be before the Dryad-tree put words to the terms of its bargain. (And he hoped that dealing with the invaders would not take the rest of the night.)

:You were James' lover. You stand now in his stead, in his place as head-leader-gardener-in-charge. I would Know you, taste your essence, take up your seed spilled in my behest, by my action. And you ought to know me likewise, as Tree and as Quick. As He did.:

The branches shivered in the still air. One of the captives whimpered as twigs poked at delicate places. :It has been many seasons since I was watered with men's seed. I prefer it willing, but I'll take it in recompense if need be. Fire and axes indeed.:

 _Gods_ thought Declan, equal parts appalled and aroused. The wild thought crossed his mind that perhaps the perfume-gun had been more effective than he'd thought (especially since he hadn't even been in the room when Marag Selkieschild had fired it at her fellow fosterling, 'just testing.') And while it did nothing to dampen his arousal, it did serve to remind him of the people waiting anxiously for his call-in. His watch said not quite eight minutes had passed. They could wait another few seconds.

Declan stepped close to the bole of the tree, ignoring the bristly man's kicking feet with absent grace. It was harder to lift his hand to press against the smooth curve of wood that arched over the bright green-gold eyes. The bark was warm and made his fingers tingle. He could feel his breath coming short and his heart pounding with a heavy pulse in his cock, his throat, the tips of his fingers. "Yes," Declan said simply. "Once I've disposed of the invaders I'll be happy to meet your terms."

:I shall look forward to your return, then. I suppose you want me to put them down now?:

"Not just yet. Let me get a few more people here before you let them go." He gave the wood a small pat as he retrieved his hand and moved out from under the branches, toggling his mic on. Declan spoke into it, relieved that his voice was steady, even light. "Dave, MacRae here. Situation is contained. I need you to send a cleanup crew, Trish, Phiie, Tano and your two, armed light, and with plenty of zip-ties. The Ash got two of them and the pyrocanthus the third."

Dave chuckled. "On their way to you now. You know, I always thought the garden could defend itself any day, against zombies or thieves. This just proves it." (Plants vs Zombies was a popular pastime.)

"Very true," Declan said with a smile for both the tree and the greenery that had stopped the third man. "I'll take care of calling the authorities once I'm back at the house."

* * *

The pranksters had been sent on their way with a fright and a lecture and a handful of business cards signed in purple ink by Penelope-Kate, as harmless proof that they had managed to get into the Sanctuary. Next time, they were told in no uncertain terms, they were to ring the bell and ask for a token like civilized people. They might even get a tour of the public rooms, if they were polite and Alistair was willing. The invaders who had used their harmless shenanigans as cover for their not so harmless attempt at the Sanctuary's defenses were nothing like as lucky.

It was very late indeed by the time the formalities of police and officialdom were done with. Charges were pressed and perpetrators handed over to the authorities (restrained in more conventional zip-ties and rope, rather than ivy-strands and other energetic plant material. The Ash had offered to manacle the two he held with wood fused tight to itself, but Declan declined that offer with thanks) along with their highly illegal gear — incendiary canisters, weapon-length blades honed to lethal sharpness, firearms and other things the only purpose of which was destruction and mayhem. It seemed these three had been planning to have their Fifth of November several days early; Declan did not care to speculate on who or what they had planned to figure as the Guy in their bonfire, though it was obvious the Sanctuary as a whole had been their target.

The day folk had all retired by the time the police left, and the nocturnal residents had stayed out of the way. They were all used to seeing Declan up and about at all hours anyway, just as any Head of House had to be. No one did more than nod acknowledgment to Declan as he made his way first to his room to shed tac-vest and boots in exchange for sweats and softer shoes, and thence back down the stairs and out the library doors that let onto the terrace.

The garden was truly quiet now, The waxing sliver of the moon long set and the never entirely dark sky of London was only faintly hazed with the spill of street lights and night life. Declan made his way down the garden, going softly by habit as well as intent. He had no more desire to disturb sleeping plants or the small creatures that lived in the shelter of the Sanctuary's outer walls than he did those who lived within the House. There had been enough of disturbance tonight. And it gave him space to think.

It ought to be colder -- it _was_ colder outside the walls than it was in the garden -- especially this late in the year. Declan had occasionally noticed that before, but not really considered what it might mean or what could cause it. Tonight he was grateful for the oddity, and the mere fact that he was thinking about the air temperature and not about what he was out there for said something about his own state of mind.

He wasn't, precisely, afraid — he'd been with the Sanctuary and the SAS between them for nearly two thirds of his life, been (as the tree had pointed out, not that he was likely to forget) Sherlock Holmes' lover and heir — but while bargaining with a sentient tree might not be the strangest part of his day, being intimate, being _fucked_ by one most surely was. There'd been a certain amount of not-quite-terror involved in finally making a pass at James, but this really was something different. This was interacting - connecting- with the abnormal world in a whole new way. This was The Five levels of recklessness, and could possibly result in The Five kinds of consequences. But he still had no reservations about saying yes. Maybe it was adrenalin-fueled recklessness, maybe it was a response to meeting and defeating a very real and surprisingly personal threat to _his_ sanctuary, but whatever the engine, cooler thought wasn't going to stop him.

(Once they’d gotten the invaders out of the dark garden and into the brightly lit house, Declan had recognized ‘Reg’ - actual name Reginald Donald Parsons - as one of the men who’d scaled Pen y Fan with him in the hill phase of the selection exercises as a candidate for the SAS. Parsons did not seem to remember Declan, but it added an entirely unexpected sting to the outrage.)

Declan had again reached the stately yew and hawthorn pair that stood between the two parts of the garden. He stopped for a moment, one hand on the thin-barked trunk of the thorn tree. It was the wrong end of the year for this really — May-day, Beltain, was a much more likely season — but one took things when they came. Samhain it was. (Even if, technically, it was after midnight and thus All Hallows proper. The sun hadn’t risen, nor had there been proper sleep: it wasn’t tomorrow yet, from a certain very non-scientific point of view.) “You are wibbling,” he told himself with some exasperation. “Stop it.”

Finally, he simply took a deep breath, straightened his spine and went forward. Unencumbered now, branches reaching high in their accustomed lines, the Ash stood waiting for him. A pale silvery light filtered from the still-green leaves and clumps of unfallen ash-keys, making the root-shapes and the texture of the bark all the more visible, and the whole presence of the tree more alive. As Declan stepped under the branches, grass whispering against his shoes, the diffuse glow dimmed to a shimmer hardly more than starlight, purpose served, and the eye-lights gleamed brighter gold. :You came:

“I did,” Declan said. It had not occurred to him not to, not after saying he would, and even if events had prevented him, he would have found a way to send word. Then, because the night was just that surreal, and the flutter under his breastbone and the simmering interest in all his nether-parts (and wasn’t that a James-like way of thinking of it? Still, appropriate somehow) very like another uncertain occasion, he found himself saying (babbling) “And hope to be coming again, soon. You said.” He managed to stop himself.

The tree laughed, a sense of dew-sparkle and sun-flash, a ruffling flutter of leaves and a resonant chuckle both felt and heard. :Indeed, I did. Indeed you shall, we shall.:

Declan had already guessed the tree had a sense of humor, but it was a relief to have it confirmed. The tightness in his shoulders eased, and he gave a rueful chuff of laughter. “I’m Declan, by the way. I don’t know if you knew that, or if you — your people — use names. If you do, I’d like to know it.”

A wordless impression came to him, a rough-smooth texture, gold wood-grain and silver bark, a taste of sunlight on summer leaves, rising river mist creeping over roots, the papery chime of ash-keys dancing in the wind. It was a complex, layered, living name, but nothing that a human tongue could say. After a moment, Declan heard :True-names start in the seed, growing and changing as we grow. Quick or Rooted, you may call me Frax.:

“Thank you. Frax.” Declan tried to infuse a little of what he had felt into the word. He was not entirely certain what to do next. The usual conventions didn’t seem to apply. How, after all, might one go about kissing a tree? Frax answered that question by revealing what had to be his quick, or mobile self. (It was a little disconcerting how he — definitely, unarguably he — picked up the thoughts Declan had not yet put into words, though it made sense, and a low-level telepathy/empathy certainly made communicating easier). Quick, Frax was a shadowy vaguely human shape, a little taller than Declan, with an impression of leafy hair and long limbs with knobs and extra joints. He was the vivid green-gold color of the tender, sap-filled layer just beneath the bark, and he moved with lithe and whippy grace.

Twiggy fingers reached out to catch at Declan’s clothes. :Will you be naked with me? As naked before me as you were with him? As naked as he? The night-breeze will not come under my branches without leave this night.:

Quickly, not thinking, only doing, Declan nodded and stripped out of his clothes, toed off his shoes, then stepped into the waiting green embrace.

Wood and leaves whispered against Declan's skin and he shivered, naked and wanting in the dark. His own hands reached out to find smooth curves and cool-warm surfaces that tingled under his fingertips, drawing a sigh from the branches above him, made the greeny-silver presence in his mind brighten and blush gold.

Translucent, shadowy green fingers teased/plucked his nipples to sparking points, cupped and cradled his balls, made a slick, snug channel for his aching, eager cock even as another hand guided Declan to grasp and stroke a shape first branch, then root, then something like to both, stiff with a rind that warmed and flexed in Declan’s hand, the tip splitting like a bud.

The shaft that emerged from the sheath of bark at Declan's ministrations was smooth, warm wood, silver-green and pale as a peeled switch. It was sheened with an opalescent wetness, slick and slippery in his hand. Frax's leaves shivered as Declan explored it with gentle fingers. It was easy to imagine the slender tip probing for entry, sliding in, cool against the heat of his arse, a hardness different and yet not. His cheeks clenched, and his arsehole pulsed as he shivered, wanting. And then the shaft (or another just like it, who was to say a tree had only one prick?) was nudging behind Declan’s balls, groping for the soft place that wanted filling. It slid in, slim and frictionless at first, then growing steadily, slowly stretching him easily, impossibly open as it swelled, thickened, burgeoned wide and long, filling him utterly.

Declan’s hips jerked helplessly forward into the tight channel of Frax’s grip on his (aching, rigid, burning) cock, then back again onto the still-slick, now knurled thickness that pierced him, speared his (aching, hungry, eager) arse. Something pressed against that place inside, sending lightning along every nerve, and he cried out, pleasure and acceptance-wanting and need-desire all at once. Back and forth he moved as he was held, invaded, gripped and stroked inside and out until he felt he must shatter from sheer sensory overload and ecstasy, the embrace of Frax’s branches (arms, limbs, strength and sinew) wound about him all that kept him from flying apart.

Then shatter he did, convulsing around the shaft that pierced him, seed spilling into the firm grip enclosing him, feeling a pulse, a shout, a sound-sense of something that strained, reached, strove toward release, a bursting open that tugged him further upward, delved him deeper, made him arch and cry as every particle of him came undone in wrenching, wonderful, all-encompassing climax until he was sweat-soaked, limp and utterly spent. Frax, too was replete, his presence in Declan's mind a deep hum of silvery content as now root-like fingertips absorbed Declan's seed, slender filaments moving softly & delicately over Declan's skin, seeking out stray drops in the folds of his foreskin, the unexpected sensation drawing a last wet, wracking pulse of ecstasy from him as the muscles of his arse spasmed around Frax's wooden shaft still stretching him wide, and his cock produced a final spurt of fluid that seemed to originate from his toes. It was the very edge of too much, and he felt his throat tighten, his eyes sting with the overwhelmingness of it all. Frax seemed to understand, and simply held him, still and undemanding, the sense of groundedness, of being rooted, connected to earth and sky, water and warmth, light and dark, alien and also so familiar giving him the space to let it all wash over and through him unresisted.

Shivering, trembling, shaken by pulses and aftershocks, cradled in branches that held him effortlessly, easily. Declan let himself be enfolded, resting in wordless connection until his tumultuous breath eased and the damp/sweat dried from his skin in the temperate, still air under Frax's canopy.

This, this vulnerability, this hollowing out and being filled with the Other, made to _feel_ not think, was what James had always found in being taken, being fucked, that he had craved and feared, both difficult and desperately desired. It had never been just simple, enjoyable sensation, never not significant. For a moment Declan's grief at his loss welled up sharply, and he knew Frax shared it, understanding the taste-scent-impression of glassy, brittle sap weeping from fissured bark and leaf-fall out of season from a new and intimate perspective. Not just old friends. Frax had loved him too.

:Loved as you loved, knowing and known. As he you. As could ...: Frax did not finish the thought, but Declan could feel the almost wistful hope in it.

There was no clinging threat in the embrace of the branches that held him, no sense that Frax would drop him either. Declan was certain that Frax would set him gently upright and unencumbered on the ground immediately at Declan's word. Not that he wanted to just yet. Not that he wanted just yet even to be separate, alone in himself.

“I’m not him, you know. I can’t, _won’t_ , be anyone but myself,” Declan said quietly, forehead resting against yielding bark. It wasn’t that he seriously thought Frax would make that mistake, but he had to say it, had to make that line completely clear at the outset. (It was a battle he still fought on too many fronts. In some things he recognized it as a compliment, a kind of implicit respect. In others, no, really not.)

There was a green flicker at the edge of Declan’s sight and a brush of insubstantial hands cupping his face, leaf-fingers ruffling through his short hair and trailing like a breeze down his back to where they were still joined.

:Indeed no. You are rowan-elder-holly, grown in more forgiving soil, shaped by different winds. There is more of falcon to you, for all you look the hedgehog.:

Declan could not help but chuckle at the image Frax gave him, sly, perceptive and unexpectedly affectionate: his hair all hedgehog-prickly, his nose as aquiline as James’, everything else clearly and decisively him, down to the impression of t-shirt and trainers, and his usual monochrome color-choices. He leaned his forehead against smooth bark-skin again and said “My door is always open to your mobile-self, and I won’t forget your rooted self, but the job comes first, the House and all the beings that look to me.”

:That means having a care for yourself and what you need as well, you know.:

“Yes,” Declan said, not even putting mental reservations around the word. He did know. And if he chose to meet those needs occasionally in non-standard ways, it would hardly be the most unusual thing happening within these walls.

He felt a little pulse and shivered as the shaft within him narrowed, shrank and slid from him with a last caress to still sensitized skin at his opening and behind his balls. It occurred to him to wonder what the refractory period for a tree might even be, and he decided he could find that out some other time, when it was not the end of a fraught night, outside. He thought he heard/felt the leaf-whisper-rustle that was Frax’s chuckle, but all Frax said was, :On a warmer night, yes.:

Declan began to shiver in earnest as the night grew colder and the last of the clouds fled the sky. It was late enough now that the city lights were at their lowest, letting a surprising number of stars gleam through the high branches. He could still clearly sense Frax’s presence, but the contact was thinner than it had been, more distant. There was ground under his feet, chill pebbles contrasting with still-warm wood of roots, the wet brush of grass. When he stepped off the end of polished arch of root, both feet on the ground, he knew himself again entirely single in himself. He hurried into his clothes, not bothering with fastenings, and pressed his palm against the bole. He felt the more-than-tree tingle vibrate in all the bones and nerves of his hand. “Thank you,” he said, seriously, holding the taste-touch-texture sense that was Frax’s true-name clear in his mind since it did not go into words. “Thank you. For everything tonight, for being part of this, being here, for James, for me, for whatever is going to come next.”

There was another shimmer of green, and for a moment, Declan could see Frax’s Quick-shape clearly, tall and slender and emphatically male, more human-like than he had been in the first glimpse Declan had gotten of him earlier. :You are most welcome, Declan, lover-friend, land-friend, place-master, tender of trees. Go well and dream sweet. I certainly shall.:

Declan went, and he did indeed sleep well, dreaming of quiet dells and sunlight through leaves, his bed not as empty as it had been, for all he was alone in it.

* * *

Late the next day (All-Hallows proper, the gates between the worlds shutting with the rising of the sun), still feeling pleasantly stretched and sore as well as remarkably energized, Declan opened a new file on the encrypted drive. The old files under 'Dryad' had not been informative at all, not even a cross-reference, but James had been very consistent in some things. ' _Fraxinus Meliai_ ' was of course under 'F' with cross-references to 'Aesc/Ash', 'Dual-aspect: Beings embodied with', 'Hamadryad' and 'Tree, Sentient' but not to Dryad, because, technically, classical dryads were oaks -- ' _Quercus Dryadiae_ ' -- and the term as more commonly used referred to nymphs or spirits that lived in trees but were not inextricably bound to any particular one, whereas hamadryads were so bound -- and Frax was an ash, very much embodied within that one tree. While he was thinking about it, Declan repaired that omission with a 'see also' link, and wrote a few lines in his daily log.

> 1 Nov 2011 -- Halloween prank ably countered by Sanctuary residents (see separate report). Actual threat to the house and grounds stopped by Frax and several of the more mobile garden denizens, particularly the pyrocanthus, the runner-beans and the ribbon-ivy ( _hedera helix lemniscus_ , not _hedera helix rhizomatifera_ ). The scavenger hunter/pranksters were sent on their way chastened but unbloodied. The three who came in by the garden intending harm were suitably restrained. They, their weaponry, and incendiaries were turned over to the mundane authorities. Police report also to follow.

Then Declan sat for a moment contemplating the blinking cursor. Finally, feeling as close to James as he had in those frantic weeks after his death, but without the tearing grief, he set fingers to keys and carefully typed.

> Fraxinus Meliai ( _arbor sapiens_ ) aka Frax  
> 1 Nov 2011  
> Have renewed relations, same terms and conditions as per J. Watson. Have new appreciation for the term 'wood' as applied to male anatomy.

Indeed it would be no hardship to keep this contract.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair the Mid-Lothian Dwarf and Squishy the slime-mold are Penknife's creation, as is the _Pyrocanthus pyrafolia_.
> 
> Various of Grav_ity's denizens of the London Sanctuary were involved too, but they didn't tell me what part they played, so I didn't write it.
> 
> Most of the plant names I made up. If someone has better ideas about them please do let me know -- High School biology was a looooong time ago, and the plants are exotics/abnormals in any case.


End file.
